Carried to the Grave and Other Stories Page 13

  You didn’t think I’d get all the way to the end of the story without saying it, did you?

  The show must go on.

  An Unholy Death

  “Gentlemen. We’ll have no such rough language in Murphy’s Mercantile,” Kate Murphy told the two loggers as she plucked their change from the drawer of the brass cash register and slid the coins across the glass-topped counter. “About the sheriff or anyone else. Besides, it’s too pretty a day for talk about thieving.”

  Both men cackled, their bushy beards in need of a good trim, then dropped the coins into the pockets of their wool pants and gathered up their supplies.

  “Thank you, Mrs.,” the older one said. “We’ll be well fed for another week in the woods. Maybe next time we come into town, we’ll visit the barber.” He gave her a broad, blue-eyed wink, as if he’d heard her thoughts about his beard.

  “Off with you now,” she said with a wave of her hand.

  The men laughed. “She’s a feisty one,” the younger man told his companion, a beefy hand reaching for the brass thumb latch on the front door. “Paddy’s got his hands full with her.”

  At that, Kate’s embarrassment turned to anger. Don’t let it show, she warned herself. You know what they say about the Irish. In less than two years, Murphy’s Mercantile had gone from a supply tent to a whitewashed shack to this grand building made of locally fired clay bricks, with plank floors and wide display windows and milk glass lights hanging from the tin ceiling. Paddy had sunk everything he had into the business and she dare not do or say a thing that might jeopardize its future. Their future.

  She’d been Paddy Murphy’s wife for thirty-one days now, the last twenty-two here in Jewel Bay, Montana. The town wasn’t anything like what she’d expected, nothing like their hometown in Wisconsin. Paddy had been honest in his letters over the six months before their marriage. The older cousin of a schoolmate, he’d come from Ireland at twelve and worked hard to get a start in the new country. A boy she’d known but never given any serious thought, until he’d come back to Wisconsin for a visit last winter. They’d locked eyes in an understanding, though she’d just turned twenty-one, and when he left to return to Montana, they entrusted their courtship to the postal service and planned a late August wedding. Then what was already being called the Great Fire of 1910 swept through the region, endangering millions of acres and thousands of people. Thankfully it had spared this valley. After their wedding and two nights in a grand hotel in St. Paul and the long railroad trip west, here she was.

  No, Jewel Bay was nothing like she’d expected. Both more, and less, and every day full of surprises.

  “Don’t you mind them,” said a woman in a yellow dress, lace and a green ribbon trimming the stand-up collar. She wore no hat, the dark hair fashionably coiled on top of her head accentuating her height, and her warm smile eased Kate’s tensions. Or maybe it was the hint of lavender that surrounded her. “The valley’s full of men like that. More comfortable with squirrels and silence than a pretty young woman. I’m Laura Peterman. I think you’ve met my husband, James, at the bank.”

  Kate felt herself blushing again. Was that going to be the way of things, at least until she’d met all the customers and figured out where all the canned goods were shelved and who paid cash and who had credit? Surely the Petermans had credit. Paddy had shown her the books, but he’d gone out to make deliveries, leaving her here alone for the first time.

  And she wasn’t pretty, not by a long shot. Short and slight, with fair skin and hazel eyes, brown hair and a pointy chin. A heart-shaped face, if you wanted to put it kindly. She didn’t look Irish at all. Paddy said maybe not, but she wore her heart on her sleeve as well as her face, and that made her the sweetest lass to him.

  “Kate Flan—” she began, then corrected herself. “Kate Murphy. I’m not quite used to it yet.”

  Laura Peterman’s lips curved, but there was less warmth in her expression this time. Had Kate offended her? She couldn’t imagine how.

  “We’re so pleased with all that you and Paddy have planned for the Mercantile,” Mrs. Peterman said. “Now that residents will be able to get everything they need right here on Front Street, more families will put down roots. Town will prosper.”

  “That’s all Paddy,” Kate replied. “I only take credit for marrying him. Shall we see if we can fill that order?” She gestured to the list in the woman’s gloved hands.

  When Paddy applied for a loan to build the Mercantile, in the heart of town, not everyone at Jewel Bay State Bank had been sure of him. The West, with its logging and mining camps that sprung up almost overnight and closed down almost as quickly, was full of get-rich-quick schemers. But James Peterman had grasped that Paddy was not just another itinerant Irishman out to make a fast buck. He had plans, for himself and for Jewel Bay. Peterman had been impressed by Paddy’s sketches of the storefront and the columns of figures showing what he expected to sell in each of the first five years. When the loan came through, Paddy had written to her that he felt as tall and broad as the Douglas fir and Engelmann spruce that studded the nearby slopes, their future secure.

  Now, the two women reviewed the list. Kate stacked cans of tomatoes and corn and peaches next to bags of flour and sugar on the long counter. Then she pointed to the list, in Laura Peterman’s graceful cursive. “Those we’ll have to order from Pondera,” she said, the name of the bigger town thirty miles away still unfamiliar to her mouth. Pahn-duh-RAY.

  “James is eager to teach me to drive his new Packard,” Laura said, “but I’m content with driving the horse and buggy into town. I’m grateful to Miss Lang at the school for suggesting you take over my daughter’s piano lessons. Elizabeth is improving already. You should come to the house and play for us sometime soon.”

  “I’d be delighted.” Kate had seen the Petermans’ large white house, as fine as any back in Baraboo, on the north shore of the lake. Elizabeth had talked about their grand piano.

  “It’s settled then,” the other woman said, and laid a hand on her list. “I trust these other things can be delivered?”

  “Yes, certainly.” The man Paddy had hired to make deliveries had taken his last wages and left town, and they hadn’t found a replacement yet. Paddy was doing his best, loading up the wagon and driving the mule himself, but the extra work was taking a toll.

  “Very good. Put all that on our account, please, but I’ll pay you now for some licorice for the children.” Laura Peterman drew out a small coin purse.

  “That is exquisite,” Kate said. She’d always been drawn to shiny things. The monogram on the silver clasp read LLC, the initials of the first and maiden names smaller than the L in the middle. Monograms were a rite of passage for a newly married woman; she’d been stitching her own on linen towels in the evenings. “My older sister has one much like it, a gift from her mother-in-law when she married. How many children do you have?”

  “Three.” The other woman laid a coin on the counter and quickly thrust the coin purse into her kid leather purse. Kate lifted the lid of a large glass jar and pulled out three sticky black sticks.

  “Do be careful on your way home,” she said as she handed over the bag of licorice. “If there is a band of thieves, as those loggers said . . .”

  “Hard to imagine in broad daylight, isn’t it?” Laura Peterman said. “But yes, a woman must beware of danger, and keep herself safe.”

  May the Good Lord keep us all safe, Kate whispered as the front door closed.

  ∞

  “It’s worrisome, Paddy, it is,” Kate Murphy told her husband later after filling him in on the talk about the thieves. “And it wasn’t just those two loggers, trying to rattle me. All afternoon, everyone who came in asked what I’d heard, whether they’d struck again, what Sheriff Gibson is doing to track them down. People are frightened.”

  “Daniel Gibson isn’t the sheriff. He’s a deputy, though an able man,” Paddy Murphy replied. “I’m sorry you had to hear harsh talk on your first day tending our
wee shop on your own.”

  It was not just “a wee shop.” Kate was astonished that he had built this fine general store, as fine as any she had seen. Astonished that they owned it, determined to make it prosper.

  “But you’re not worried? We do keep some cash here, and heaven knows where you go making your deliveries.”

  “No, lass.” He took her in his arms, there behind the counter, and she glanced around. They were alone. And they were married. After a long, sweet kiss, he released her, the look on his face echoing the joy in her heart.

  She was married.

  “Jewel Bay’s a gem,” Paddy said, “but there’s grousers here just like back home. Men who’ll grouse when it rains and complain when it stops. They’re not wrong about the sheriff, but Daniel Gibson will find those lowlifes and give them what-for. Now, me, I’ve got to find a delivery man. I can’t be headin’ out all hours of the day with bags of nails and flour and whatnot.”

  “There must be someone. A man who can drive the motor car as well as the wagon.” The Model T couldn’t go everywhere; the roads were too rough, too rutted and steep. A man might own a horseless carriage, but if he owned a business, he still needed a horse. Or a mule.

  “Aye, but who, lass? When you talk to the Good Lord, ask Him to give you a name.”

  ∞

  “Think of your hand as a mama bird, your fingertips the beak dropping food into her chicks’ open mouths,” Kate told her pupil, making her own hand a bird pecking the air. “A firm but gentle touch.”

  Grace Haugen was a serious child of eleven, her blond hair caught above her ears by a pair of barrettes. She barely smiled as she bent her head over the keys. But she could play, even if she was more determined to do things right than to make a joyful noise.

  The Flannery sisters had all taken piano lessons and learned to draw and paint, and after she’d finished school, Kate had given lessons in the parlor of the family home. So when Anne Lang, one of the Jewel Bay elementary school teachers, had asked her to take on a few pupils after school, she’d readily agreed. She and Paddy had no piano, not yet, though she hoped they would in a few years when they built a real house, maybe with an orchard and a view of the lake. But the battered oak upright in the smaller of the school’s two makeshift classrooms was sturdy enough to withstand the pounding the children gave it, and it held a tune decently.

  “LAH-dah-dah-da,” she sang, leading the girl through the melody of the Bach bourrée. “Very good. That’s very good. Now, let’s add the bass line.”

  On they went, a phrase at a time.

  “Good heavens,” Kate said, glancing at the clock. “We’ve gone far too long. It will be getting dark. I’ll walk with you and apologize to your father for keeping you.”

  They bundled into their coats—the October days were clear and sunny, but temperatures dropped with the setting sun. Grace retrieved her school bag and Kate followed her outside. The makeshift school in the church hall was cramped, but students and teachers were managing while plans were made for a new, dedicated school. No high school, though a handful of local students boarded in Pondera during the week to attend classes.

  “Will your father let you practice on the church piano?” Kate asked.

  “Sometimes,” Grace said. “Though I think hearing me makes him sad. The first time he saw my mother, she was playing the piano in church. He always says that’s what convinced him to serve God.”

  The girl’s tone was serious, not quite grasping her father’s joke. Kate had only met the Reverend Arval Haugen a time or two, but he struck her as kindly and gentle, if perhaps more attentive to his books and his flock than to his daughter. He might not notice that she was late, a thought that made Kate frown.

  “His work makes him happy, Mrs. Murphy,” the girl said.

  “Of course it does,” Kate said quickly, chiding herself for not keeping her feelings hidden. It was a fault, one her mother had cautioned her against many times.

  “My mother played beautifully, almost as well as you, and she taught me as much as she could before she died. I wish . . .”

  The words went unspoken, but Kate let her thoughts fill them in. I wish she were here.

  They reached the minister’s small frame house. It was dark, the chimney quiet. The gate in the white picket fence squeaked as Grace pushed it open, and Kate followed her into the yard.

  “Where’s Buster?” Grace asked.

  The dog, Kate assumed. The reverend must be resting. She watched the windows, expecting a light to come on and the reverend to open the door and welcome them. Would he have supper ready for his daughter, or was cooking part of her chores? The parsonage had no garden that she could see, just a pair of young apple trees. Surely the churchwomen kept an eye on the absentminded widower and his daughter, dropping off spare eggs, beans, and potatoes.

  But the house remained dark. Kate knocked and called out. Turned the handle and stepped inside, calling again. The house was neat and tidy and empty.

  What should she do?

  No point borrowing trouble. Most likely, he’d gone to visit a church member and lost track of time, as she and Grace had, though they’d been caught up in eighth notes, not tea and sympathy.

  “Grace, does your father keep a horse and buggy?”

  “He borrows one from Mr. Peterman or the sexton if he needs to go somewhere too far to walk or ride his bicycle.”

  It was a common sight, the man in black, a hat jammed on his head, riding a bicycle along Jewel Bay’s dirt roads and up its hills, a speckled brown dog trotting beside him.

  “Does he often go visiting this time of day?” And leave you to fend for yourself.

  Grace nodded. “But he’s always home in time for supper. Or nearly always.”

  Not the encouraging words Kate hoped for. “Well, shall we start supper?”

  Inside, Kate turned on the lights. Thanks to Jewel Bay Power and Light and its capable manager, Ivan Gregory, most homes and businesses were electrified. Most had running water, too, though only a few had telephones, a service the power company had begun earlier in the year. After several tries, she got a flame going in the cookstove’s firebox and put on a pot of water for the potatoes and carrots the girl was peeling. Though it was Wednesday, there was a good chunk of Sunday’s roast in the icebox. She tucked the meat into a small roasting pan and added hot water. Before she left, she’d slip it in the warming oven.

  Within minutes, the potatoes were boiling and the table was set for two. The kitchen was almost cozy.

  “Well, then.” Kate brushed one hand against the other. “Your father will come home to a nice hot supper. You can start your schoolwork while you’re waiting.” She hated to leave the girl alone, but it wouldn’t be long, and she wasn’t a small child. Grace would be fine.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Murphy.”

  “Remember.” Kate pinched her fingers together as she had during their lesson. “Like a bird,” and the girl smiled.

  Outside, dusk had deepened and it would be full dark by the time Kate got home.

  But something tugged at her. She pulled her coat tight and retraced her steps to the church, a simple frame building so different from the brick-and-stone St. Joseph’s in Baraboo with its spire and bell tower, the church where she had been baptized and married. As she approached, a dog came running toward her and stopped at her feet. His paws were muddy, and he smelled like pine pitch.

  “You must be Buster. Where have you been?”

  In the shrubbery beside the main doors, a bicycle leaned against the white clapboards. Just as she’d thought. Clearly, Grace had not noticed it. Kate herself had only seen it out of the corner of her eye, the sight not entirely registering.

  She opened one heavy door. The air was still, though it bore a hint of the wax used to polish the pews and altar table. Not a large space, no bigger than the Mercantile. And empty.

  To the left of the raised altar were two closed doors. One, she suspected, led outside, the other to the reverend’s study. Sh
e’d give him a piece of her mind. What was he thinking, sitting here with his books and prayers while his daughter sat home alone, pretending not to worry?

  She started across the nave, her hand already raised to knock. Glanced to her right, for no reason that she could explain then or afterwards.

  Behind the altar table, on the raised wooden platform, lay a man in black. Crumpled—knees bent, one arm outstretched, hand open. His eyes were open, too. They’d once been blue, she could see, but the color had begun to leave them, as it did in the first few hours after death.

  That, and the bloody gash on his forehead, a good three or four inches long, told Kate Murphy beyond any doubt that the Reverend Arval Haugen was, in fact, dead.

  ∞

  Ivan Gregory motioned Kate back, but she followed him anyway. She’d already seen the body; seeing it again was not going to make her nightmares worse.

  The power company manager crouched and placed two fingers on the side of the reverend’s neck. He was one of those men who, like Paddy, seemed to know exactly what to do in a difficult situation, and as soon as he answered her knock on his door, listened to her story, and stepped into action, her worry had eased. Not that everything would be all right; it would not. A man was dead, and a motherless girl now fatherless, too.

  Gregory raised his eyes to hers, his expression confirming what she already knew.

  “Would you offer a prayer, Mrs. Murphy, while we wait for Deputy Gibson?”

  After finding Reverend Haugen, she’d gone outside, not wanting to check for a telephone in his office, and had seen the light on up the road in Gregory’s two-story yellow house. She’d stood inside the front door while he telephoned the deputy. When Kate fretted about leaving Grace home alone, he’d instructed his nephew, a slender boy of about twelve, to fetch Miss Lang, the teacher, and escort her to the parsonage to sit with Grace. The boy asked if he should come to the church afterwards, a mix of horror and excitement in his eyes, but the uncle had said no, he should stay with the women, and it was clear from the way the boy straightened his shoulders and nodded solemnly that he took his duty seriously.